


listen, love

by cumulativeChaos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, jon asks martin to sit in while he reads a statement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumulativeChaos/pseuds/cumulativeChaos
Summary: For the third time that night, Jon stands before the door to fragile document storage, prepared to knock. For the third time that night, he's talking himself out of what he came to do.---Written for Hurt/Comfort week, day 3: overwhelmed.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 153





	listen, love

**Author's Note:**

> *steals a scene from my own fic and turns it into a one-shot* hey whats up
> 
> set during martin's s1 worm sleepover

Jon stands before the door to the fragile document storage, sweating. This is the third time this night he’s stood here, fist raised to knock, and he's beginning to suspect it will end like all the others: with Jon lowering his hand and walking back to his office, muttering angrily to himself.

It’s a stupid request, anyway. Martin will probably laugh at him for asking–if he’s even awake, that is. He’s probably asleep, and here Jon is about to rudely barge in and disturb the man’s sleep with his stupid, _stupid_ request and–

“Jon?”

Jon startles, spinning around and flinging a hand out in panic. The hand connects with a stack of papers, sending them spiraling to the ground. He curses, immediately hurrying to clean up the fallen papers.

Martin, mug of tea in hand, hurries to help.

“O-oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Back away!” Jon snaps.

Martin, only a few paces away, stops in his tracks, then takes a careful step back. “S-sorry.”

“No, wait, I–” Jon groans. He can practically hear Georgie’s voice teasing him. _Nice going, Jon._ “I didn’t mean to–I meant–I just didn’t want you to spill tea on the documents.”

“Oh,” Martin says. He seems relieved, which is encouraging. “Er, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I-I can reorganize that stack, if you want.”

“No, there’s no use,” Jon says, picking up the last of the papers and placing the stack back where it originally sat. “It probably wasn’t organized to begin with.”

“Right.” Martin stands there awkwardly. “Did, er, did you want to speak with me?”

“Oh, right,” Jon says. “I-I thought you might be asleep, so I didn’t want to-”

“No, no, just making tea. I thought you’d left, actually, or else I would have made you some.”

“Right.”

A pause. “So… was there something–”

“Right!” Jon says. “Right. Er.” Now that he’s faced with _actually asking Martin,_ Jon freezes. It had seemed logical, in the dim recesses of his office, but standing before another person, Jon finds himself feeling even more foolish than before. “You know what, I’ll just let you get to sleep.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not sleeping any time soon,” Martin chuckles. “Nightmares, y’know.”

“Ah.” So much for that. “Really, though–”

“Did you want to sleep?” Martin asks. “I know you said you sometimes used the cot when you were working late, and it is past midnight–”

“No, no, that’s quite alright, I have more than enough work to keep me awake,” Jon says. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Might as well just get it over with. “Which is what I wanted to ask you about, actually.”

Jon can cite the exact moment that Martin’s face falls into exasperation. “Jon, I know you said this is a place of business, but if I’m staying here I really don’t want to be doing extra research after hours–”

“No, no, of course not,” Jon hurries to assure him. “I wouldn’t dream of it, just…” God, there’s no way to ask this that isn’t humiliating, is there? “Could you… sit in? While I record a statement?”

Martin startles almost as much as Jon had, spilling a drop of tea on the floor. Jon pretends not to notice. “Wh- what?”

Jon winces. “Right, sorry, I knew this was a stupid request–”

“No–wait–I’m not saying no!” Martin stammers. “I’m not saying no! Just… really? You want me to listen?”

Jon, again, winces. “It’s more that I… would appreciate the company. These archives can be rather ominous at night.”

Martin’s eyes widen comically, but he quickly smoothes his face into a more neutral expression. Still, he isn’t able to fully hide his incredulity. “I–right! Right, no, not gonna argue with you there, it gets proper spooky down there.”

Jon isn’t able to hide his third, and perhaps most pained, wince at the word _spooky._

“Yes, I’ll sit in,” Martin says with a smile. “It’s no problem, Jon.”

And that’s how Martin ends up sitting across from Jon, sipping his tea and watching as Jon sets up the tape recorder. It’s one of _those_ statements, of course, or else Jon wouldn’t have bothered Martin. It’s nearly one in the morning, now, and the thought of recording a _real_ statement in a room alone is enough to drive Jon to the madness of asking Martin to sit in.

Jon clears his throat awkwardly. Martin is trying not to stare, but there’s not much else to look at besides stacks of statements and boxes of blank cassette tapes. _Oh well,_ Jon thinks to himself, _good thing I’m used to feeling watched as I read these statements anyway._

“Statement of Jane Prentiss,” Jon’s voice stumbles, catches. He knew what statement this was, but still, to actually be reading the statement by their current attacker sends a shiver up his spine. Catching a glimpse of who she was before… whatever it is that happened to her. “Regarding… a wasp’s nest in her attic.”

The statement is confusing and convoluted, winding in and out of chronological order. At the time of this statement, it seems that Jane had been teetering on the brink of sanity and horror, afraid of what she was becoming but long past the point of being able to stop it. Jon finds himself drawn in, as he is with every statement, until he forgets Martin is in the room. He forgets he’s _in_ a room. The only thing that’s real is Jane and her infestation, Jane and her terror. It ignites something in Jon, something hungry, something ravenous, as he experiences the fear of Jane Prentiss as though he were inside her head.

“Statement ends,” he says at last, and it’s like coming up for air. It takes him a moment to collect himself and turn over to the follow-up research done by his assistants. He goes over Jane Prentiss’s experience at the hospital, murdering six people directly and indirectly killing a seventh. When he’s finished with her story, he takes a deep breath, and begins to lie to himself.

“Still, anyone who’s familiarised themselves with her file could tell you this,” he says, trying to believe the words he’s saying. “We still don’t have any evidence that Prentiss is actually paranormal. It could be an unknown, aggressive parasite. There are weird things out there that are perfectly natural.

“It’s not, though,” Jon says, surprising himself. It must be the sleep deprivation, robbing him of his usual denial. “I know it’s not natural. Somehow I… I feel it.” Jon chuckles darkly. “I’m sorry, my academic detachment seems to have fled me. Something in this statement has got to me a bit. I’m… I’m going to go lie down. End recording.”

As soon as the tape recorder is off, Jon feels a set of eyes on him. No, that’s not right–he feels a _different_ set of eyes on him, different from whatever watches him while he reads these statements. He remembers, suddenly, that he’s not alone in the room.

“Ah, thank you, Martin,” Jon says. “I… I honestly forgot you were here.”

“I could tell,” Martin says. His mug is cold, but still filled to the brim. “That was… a lot.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. “Yes, it was.”

Jon takes a moment to observe Martin. His assistant seems paler than usual. Jon watches as Martin lifts his mug to his lips, then grimaces as he tastes the cold beverage.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks.

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Martin says. “Your hands are shaking.”

Jon looks down. Sure enough, his hands are trembling slightly. “Oh,” he says. “That happens, sometimes, after I read a statement.”

The honesty surprises him almost as much as it very clearly surprises Martin.

“I’m going to make us some tea,” Martin announces, pushing his chair back and standing up. “You wait here. Don’t do any more work.”

“I’m not going to just _sit here_ –”

“You are going to _relax,”_ Martin says. His stern tone is the opposite of relaxing. “You’ve been working all day and night. Just take some deep breaths, all right? I’ll be right back.”

Then he’s gone, bustling back to the break room to boil a new pot, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

Being left with his thoughts, Jon’s learned, is one of the worst things he can be, especially after reading a statement. It makes Jon start to sweat, thinking about all the work he should be doing and all the work that has to be done. The Archives have barely been sorted, not to mention the backlog of statements that won’t record digitally. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really. He’s not qualified for this job, and sooner or later Elias is going to realize that and send Jon packing and Jon will have no way of protecting people from the kind of horrors that traumatized him as a child.

And that’s not even to mention everything going on with Jane Prentiss. What does she want with the Archives? Why is she laying siege to the building? The back of Jon’s neck prickles as if something were crawling across it, and he rubs anxiously at the nape of his neck. Wasn’t one traumatizing experience with bugs enough? Didn’t he deserve some rest? And how much longer could the Archives stand against Prentiss’s small attacks? When (because it’s a when, Jon knows it’s a when) Prentiss finally decides to attack full-on, will they stand a chance?

By the time Martin returns, Jon is practically hyperventilating.

“Y’know, you’ve still never told me how you take your tea, so I just made it how I usually–Jon?”

Jon takes a deep breath, or he at least tries to. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are.” Martin hurriedly sets the two mugs of tea down and comes to the other side of the desk. He turns Jon’s old wooden swivel chair until they’re facing each other. “Jon. Breathe.”

Jon does. Very quickly.

“Slow down,” Martin says. He places his hand on Jon’s back and rubs a slow, small circle with his thumb. “Deep breaths.”

Jon tries. He manages it, sort of, with the occasional gasping hiccup. He’s still shaking, but he’s breathing, now.

“You said you were going to lie down?”

Jon shakes his head. “I mostly said that because I forgot you were here,” he says. “I’m not going to take your–”

“It’s _your_ cot,” Martin reminds him. “Come on.”

Through Jon’s protests, Martin all but shoves Jon towards fragile document storage. Jon’s legs move on autopilot, one foot in front of the other, until Martin’s pushing him into the cot. Martin wraps a blanket around his shoulders.

“You’ll work yourself to death like this,” Martin says. “You need rest.”

Jon shakes his head. “I need to work.”

“You need to _rest."_ Martin grabs Jon by the shoulders. “I’m grabbing the tea. Be right back.”

It’s only a few seconds, but by the time it takes Martin to return with the tea Jon’s breath is already quickening again. He can’t help it; sleep deprivation and overworking himself has overwhelmed him, and now all he can think of are worst-case scenarios and terrible what-ifs. Martin, to his credit, doesn’t seem exasperated when he returns. He sets the tea on a desk and hurries back over to Jon, returning his hand to its spot rubbing circles on Jon’s back.

“In and out, Jon, in and out.”

Jon follows his lead, breath slowly growing more steady. His hands are barely shaking when Martin hands him his mug of tea.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Martin asks.

“I…” _Dinner,_ he wants to say, but he knows that isn’t true. “I had a bag of crisps around lunchtime.”

Martin _tsks_ under his breath. “I don’t have anything to give you now, but you need to take better care of yourself.”

“Martin,” Jon says, voice cracking. “Why are you doing this?”

Martin’s face flushes, but he stammers through a response. “I-I’m your assistant, aren’t I? I’m _assisting_ you. In, er, taking care of yourself.”

Jon laughs at that, a little bit, and takes a sip of tea. He hums, pleased. “This is perfect,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

Martin flushes even more. “All right, drink up.”

Jon does, with remarkable velocity. The tea is cool enough to drink, and he all but chugs it down in three large gulps. Martin takes the mug out of his hand when he’s done, then gently pushes Jon to lay down.

“Only for a few moments,” Jon says, letting himself relax against the almost-comfortable cot. “This is your bed, for now, I’m not going to steal it from you.”

“Of course,” Martin says, smiling. “Now be quiet, you need to rest.”

Jon shakes his head. “If it’s quiet, I’ll… it’ll be bad again. I won’t be able to stop thinking.”

“Okay,” Martin says. “What should I talk about?”

Jon thinks for a moment. “Tell me… what did you think of Jane’s statement?”

 _“Jon_ , _”_ Martin groans. “Now is not the time for work talk.”

“Not work talk,” Jon argues. “Just… talk. Tell me, not as my assistant, but as my… as _Martin,_ what you think of her statement.”

Martin is silent for a long moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Finally, he takes a deep breath. “I feel bad for her,” he says. “Even though she tried to kill me. Even though she’s _still_ trying to kill me. I’m surprised you actually took her seriously.”

Jon winces. “It was a moment of weakness,” he says. “I was overwhelmed after reading her statement. She could very much be a victim of an extremely aggressive yet perfectly natural parasite.”

“Sure,” Martin says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t believe a word Jon’s saying. “Whatever you say.”

Jon huffs and rolls over, so his back is facing where Martin is kneeling. Martin laughs, and there’s a sound of shuffling, as if he’s trying to get more comfortable. When Jon turns back around, Martin is leaning against the wall.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Jon says. “I’m going home in a few minutes.”

“Sure,” Martin says in that same tone.

"I'm serious," Jon protests.

Martin grins. "Sure."

Jon huffs, which makes Martin laugh. In his state of sleep-deprivation, Jon thinks to himself that it's a nice laugh.

"Thank you," Jon says.

Martin startles. "What for?"

"For sitting in," Jon says. "And for... this. I didn't realize how overwhelmed I was. Thank you."

Martin smiles softly.

"And I'm sorry."

Martin's smile falls. "Sorry for what?"

"For making you listen to that statement," Jon says. "I knew which one it was, and I should've at least warned you before making you listen."

"I would've listened to it eventually, anyway," Martin says. "It's fine, Jon, really. I was a little unnerved by it, but I hardly took it as bad as you did."

Jon bites his lip. "The statements, they're... draining."

"I thought you didn't believe in any of them," Martin teases.

"I don't," Jon insists. "But just because the statement givers are liars doesn't mean they aren't _good_ liars."

That makes Martin laugh, for some reason, a _real_ laugh. It makes Jon's chest feel warm and soft.

"Get some rest, Jon," Martin says, reaching up for his mug of tea.

"Wake me up in ten minutes or I'm firing you," Jon says.

"Of course," Martin says with a smile.

* * *

The next morning, Jon's phone chimes with a notification from Tim. He's not awake to see it, but when he finally wakes up, he sees a picture of him, asleep in the cot, curled up with his back facing the wall. In front of him, sitting on the floor and resting his head on the side of the cot, is Martin, also asleep.

Jon spends too long staring at the picture.

**Author's Note:**

> check out my [other fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668874/chapters/62317768) where i originally wrote a much shorter version of this scene. it's a significantly longer and significantly less fluffy fic


End file.
